Happy
by Reject Product Saka
Summary: Short, pointless fic. Explores Haku's connection with Zabuza, and takes place during the earlier stages of their training. Fluffy ending.


Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto or any of its wonderful characters. They belong to Masashi Kishimoto-san.  
  
Ugg. A little piece of crap. ... *'s indicate thought. Onegai! –points below- Review! Arigato gozaimasu...I need to know how I can fix this crap. XP Ja.  
  
Saka  
  
---  
  
"I'm . . . weak. I can't . . . I can't do it. Why won't . . . why can't . . ."  
  
Dark eyes shadowed by long lashes were locked upon the damp grass underfoot, silken lips curved into a frown. Bleak rings surrounded the optics, a result of little sleep. The child's face was pale, pure as marble, yet the cheeks were tinged with bright red circles, the skin shamed by the temperature. Raven locks trailed over the child's shoulders, reaching its waist and curling wetly, dripping drops of rainwater, as if small saplings reaching upwards for supplement.  
  
*Helpless*  
  
Bony, almost emaciated hands, clenched so that the bone shone through the skin, knuckles turning ivory. Blue-green paint tainted the nails, yet had chipped away along with a good deal of the nail itself.  
  
*Wasted*  
  
Small marks had been made in the child's marble palm. The nails dug in sharper, the fist tightened, as the rain fell now in heavy sheets, splattering the ground, berating the beaten grass, whipping at the child's exposed legs. The wind bent the curtains to its will, carrying leaves and twigs in its current, screaming at the child's hair and kimono. Blood now leaked from the hands.  
  
*Useless*  
  
The child stood immobile against the harsh elements, releasing its broken nails from its own skin, eyes shadowed by damp bangs. The child ignored the pain of the flying projectiles of nature, the sting in its hands, and clasped its small hands together before it, palms facing each other.  
  
*Focus the chakra. But I'm . . . too . . . weak. I can't do . . . Training. I've been training all this time. I can't conjure this jutsu . . . Zabuza-san will be disappointed it took me so long. But what if . . . Zabuza-san won't be disappointed. I want to see you again...I want to be wanted*  
  
White. Haku. Whiteness was all he saw behind his lids...whiteness and that face. The face he thought was all too beautiful. The face he couldn't bear to see distorted with a scowl directed in his direction. He could feel his cold-numbed hands form the symbol.  
  
"Demonic Ice Mirrors!"  
  
The ground crackled, icicles forming from the small droplets of water. Tendrils of mist parted as the sheet of ice grew from the ground, extending up from the protruding stalactite. A second . . . a . . . Haku's visage became foggy. His head ached, his hands shook – the world seemed to spin, and the mist enveloped him in a cleansing fog . . . numbing. His body felt heavy . . . then nothing more he could remember.  
  
*It's too hard . . . to hard to force breath. To hard to pump the blood. It's dark – dark like my bleak soul. I can hear nothing, see nothing, feel nothing but the sound, the cold, of my own breath. I lie here – where I lie I don't know. I want to cry. I need to cry. I can't speak...something constricts my breath. Zabuza-san . . . you haven't . . . left me? No . . . please . . . I don't want to be alone again. I don't want to remember . . . stop it. Please. Make it stop. Zabuza-san. ZABUZA-SAN. ZABUZA-SAN!*  
  
"STOP IT!"  
  
Haku's breathing came in ragged gasps for air, his eyes shut tight, yet brimming with hot salt liquid. His hair was disheveled, his lips dry and chapped. The boy's frame now shook terribly, tears flowing freely in hot streams down his ghastly cheeks, lower lip trembling as he curled up into a pathetic ball. He was alone. Violated. Disturbed. Alone. His lids seemed too heavy to lift, and at the same time, he didn't want to see where he was.  
  
It was then that he heard footsteps. His breathing quickened, and he couldn't suppress the violent gasps and sobs that rent his body. Haku didn't know what to do . . . without Zabuza-san. Without Zabuza-san, he was lost. Without Zabuza-san, he didn't want to kill, didn't have a purpose . . .  
  
A warm hand was clapped roughly upon his arm. Haku trembled at the contact, yet tried to stifle the wild sounds escaping his throat. *Weak. Weak. Weak. I can't do anything without you, Zabuza . . . san.*  
  
"Haku."  
  
The voice was harsh, coarse, and low, yet, the boy recalled it in the deep depths of his broken mind. It seemed to echo in the hollow cavern left there, that was then filled. The emptiness was gone. It was that voice, that touch, that made Haku whole. That person.  
  
The boy willed his lids to rise, wanting to see him. Wanting the first person he saw after his torment to be only him. Only...  
  
"Zabuza-san!"  
  
The older man's expression was slightly disturbed by the sudden change in his weapon's attitude, but nevertheless, he proceeding to shove the steaming beaker at Haku.  
  
"Drink," he commanded sharply, looking away from the boy.  
  
"A-Arigato," Haku stammered, blushing profusely and gently taking the beaker. He found he was wrapped loosely in a soft blanket. The two were deposited in a ditch on the side of some unknown road shrouded in fog. From what the boy could discern of his bleak surroundings, it was perhaps morning.  
  
"What were you doing?"  
  
The inquiry was blank, a simple question voiced from the man's curiosity. Yet, the boy might have detected some sort of concern that only a shinobi's senses could sense. He furrowed his eyebrows, as if thinking thoroughly. In fact, he had a time recalling the events . . . it all seemed so far off.  
  
"I was practicing, Zabuza-san," he finished, rotating his wrist gently so the contents of the beaker swished about. "Practicing a new technique." He smiled, trying to convey innocence. When he had perfected that technique, he wanted to surprise Zabuza.  
  
"Practicing," Zabuza echoed, eyeing Haku. "Haven't you learned to ration your chakra? You shouldn't use so much on one technique."  
  
Haku winced. The words seemed harsh, dark, to his ears.  
  
"I . . . forgot," he uttered, trying his hardest to focus on the contents of the cup and not his mentor's face.  
  
"Forgot? How could you forget?"  
  
*Zabuza-san?*  
  
"It's a basic for training – too little and your skills damper, too much and you exhaust yourself. You're of a Kekkei Genkai bloodline. Besides your inherited skills, you should have an acceptable amount of chakra to sustain your skills."  
  
*I . . . know . . .*  
  
"Come! We are going to train, until you learn correctly!"  
  
*You'll . . . give me a second chance?*  
  
The Devil of the Land of Mist stood, making as if to stalk off. The sudden uproar of small sniffs and moans echoing behind him as cause of his departure was a sudden annoyance – a long ago strangled conscience tugging at the strings of what remained of his heart. Turning, Zabuza crouched down again to the boy's height. The monstrosity of noise stopped.  
  
*Little sniveling brat . . .*  
  
"I thought I told you to drink."  
  
"You mean . . . you're not going away?"  
  
Zabuza scrutinized the kid before forcefully tipping the cup forward, at the same time pushing Haku's head back.  
  
*No.*  
  
The drink was warm, yet bitter. It seemed to coat his tongue and throat with a tingling, burning sensation, yet filled his aching gut with a warm comfort. Haku's hand trembled, and he could feel more tears pouring over.  
  
"Haku. What's – "  
  
The beaker was dropping upon the road, spilling its contents upon the dampened soil. Zabuza was silenced as the boy buried his face in the older man's shirt, resting his tired head against his muscular chest. Emotion and heat flooded Zabuza's limbs, and he found himself...blush. Something he could not remember happening . . . since that long forsaken childhood.  
  
The small bundle shivered as more tears fell. Then he mumbled . . . something.  
  
*Damn.*  
  
Zabuza stared at his student, yet felt opposed to pushing him gruffly away. Haku shivered again. He could feel the motion vibrate against his chest. The stifled words issued from the boy's lips once more. The older man stared at him, almost suspiciously, before gently wrapping his arms around him. The trembling stopped.  
  
"Zabuza-san . . . "  
  
"What, kid?"  
  
More odd mumbling. Zabuza glared and made to get up. This was a waste of time.  
  
*No.*  
  
Small hands clung to his shirt.  
  
"I said, what, kid?"  
  
Those large, innocent, deep eyes shone up at him, and a bright blush tainted the boy's cheeks. Zabuza stared impatiently at that emotional face.  
  
"Zabuza-san . . . I'm so . . . happy." 


End file.
